


When Stakes Are High

by Astria



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, One Shot, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29371752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astria/pseuds/Astria
Summary: Varric chuckles. “Let’s start small, Hawke.” He begins, and Hawke can see the mischief gleam in his eye. “You can hold your liquor, right?”Min’s eyes narrow at the dwarf, “The fact that you feel the need to ask is either considerably offensive or vaguely concerning.”He laughs. “A rhetorical question. Or a warning. You can decide which for yourself in a bit.”--------------------------------------In the name of recouping, Min Hawke and Varric play a few nostalgic rounds of one-on-one Wicked Grace.
Relationships: Female Hawke & Varric Tethras, Female Hawke/Varric Tethras, Hawke & Varric Tethras, Hawke/Varric Tethras
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6
Collections: Hightown Funk 2020





	When Stakes Are High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoonyLupin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLupin/gifts).



“You know, Varric, it’s been a while since we’ve played Wicked Grace.”  
  
Min Hawke stated suddenly, perched beside the dwarf in the main hall of Skyhold’s throne room, her feet swung over the arm of a chair and her head lulled back over the opposite side. She was entirely too bored for a champion in the middle of a crowded hall, and her so-called best friend was doing an absolutely abhorrent job to remedy that. 

Varric himself was engrossed in writing- or maybe it was editing- something, glasses resting on the bridge of his now-scarred nose as he leafed through ink-soaked page after page, looking for his hook. At the sound of her melodic voice, however, Varric’s gaze rose above the parchment in his hands, landing on the Champion’s own. Even now, like this, with her precarious position and his face shaded by his work, Hawke could tell he was smiling.  
  


“Hmm,” he hummed, “Is that so, Hawke?”

Hawke blustered, a very convincing pout resting on her face as she flung herself upright in her chair. “Yes!” She began, planting her feet resolutely on the ground in front of her in order to punctuate her tone. “Between all of this ‘on the run’ nonsense and you helping out with the Inquisition, we haven’t played a game in… months… maybe years, Varric! It’s a tragedy!” 

Varric lowered the parchment in his hands and the glasses from his nose with a chuckle, far too familiar with Hawke’s antics to think he’d ever be able to weasel his way out of this particular whim of her’s now. Instead, he pressed forward, elbows on knees, in order to meet her steely gaze from across the fire. He could see the flame dance in her irises, and the crimson shine slide off her hair. He resisted the urge to stare. 

“And what do you suppose we do about this tragedy, Chuckles?”  
  
Hawke beamed. “Well,” she began, eyes alight and mouth dangerously cocked. “We play, of course.” 

Varric gave her a bemused look, unable to keep the fondness from his eyes. “It’s late, Hawke.” 

“Oh, you’re _kidding me,_ old man!” She exclaimed, head thrown back in disbelief before fixing Varric with an incredulous stare. “When we were back in Kirkwall we _never_ slept! We’d play until our eyes went dry and our pockets were cleaned out!” 

The dwarf chuckled. “More like ‘until _your_ pockets were cleaned out’, Hawke.” He paused, running a calloused hand over top of his pulled-back hair, eyeing Hawke with a challenge. “ _I’m_ actually good at Wicked Grace.” 

A smirk emerged on Hawke’s face. “Those sound like fighting words, dwarf.” 

A mirrored smirk grew to reflect her’s, “So what if they are?” 

Hawke let out a small burst of laughter, kicking out her feet as dramatically as she could, swinging herself up to stand. “That’s it, serah.” She began, finger pointed at the dwarf. “Up. Now.”  
With that she began to walk away, a smile biting at her lips as she turned over her shoulder to him, watching him rise as if there was any doubt he’d follow.

“It’s on you Hawke if this makes me miss my beauty sleep.” 

They chuckled as they walked, making their way through the chilled evening air of Skyhold’s grounds towards both the familiar and unfamiliar sounds of the Herald’s Rest. Walking to taverns was a more than familiar pastime for the pair, though neither could deny there was an unspoken sentiment they shared, that, while The Rest was a nice enough bar, it couldn’t hold a candle to their original home, The Hanged Man. The Rest, after all, was missing a… certain _something_ that the Hanged Man had always had. Or rather, a certain six or so ‘somethings’ that had since scattered to the wind. They tried never to dwell too long on that last fact.

Min laughed, low and familiar, as she swung open the tavern’s door. “Oh no, no, no, Ser Dwarf. I won’t be responsible for the horrors the Inquisition might endure should you miss your all-important sleep. That-” She began, grunting slightly as she threw herself into a seat at one of the more secluded tables the tavern had to offer, slinging her feet onto the chair adjacent as Varric signaled for some drinks from the bar before sitting down as well. “-is _entirely_ on you.” 

Varric matched her laugh in tone and tense, leaning into Hawke just as drinks were delivered to their table. “Is that so, Hawke?” He teased, eyes bright and lips cocked in that devilish smirk Hawke had always loved. It took all of her control not to rest her gaze on them. “Let’s see if you’re as confident at cards as you are retorts. I’ll deal.” 

Hawke blanked, glancing briefly at their otherwise empty table. “Deal? Already? Just the two of us tonight, then?” 

The smirk renewed. “That alright, Hawke?” He began shuffling the cards in a dramatic flourish as he always did, far too used to entertaining a crowd to stop now. “I figured we could make it more… _interesting_ , if we played a game just us.”

Hawke regained her footing, a smirk growing on her mug to match the dwarf’s own. “That sounds very intriguing, Serah. Deal me in.” 

“Great.” He stated simply with a smile, glancing at Hawke through lowered eyes. 

He dealt five cards to them each, and Hawke rose her set gingerly to examine them. Not bad, but nothing quite show-stopping. She tested the weight of the hidden trump cards she had, quite literally, up her sleeve. She’d rather not cheat as early as the first draw, but depending on the ‘interesting’ stakes Varric had in mind, she might feel inclined to bust one out.

Varric, himself, is steely and as hard to read as ever as he surveys the cards in his hand. He’d always been a good Wicked Grace player, the best, really, but Hawke was also far better than most at reading his tells. In this case, as soon as he reads his lot, Varric’s eyes come up to rest easily on Hawke’s, and she can tell he’s confident he has a decent hand. If he was not, he would have spent considerably longer forking through them. 

“So,” she begins, voice light and tone teasing, “what are we betting on, good Ser?” 

Varric chuckles. “Let’s start small, Hawke.” He begins, and Hawke can see the mischief gleam in his eye. “You can hold your liquor, right?” 

Min’s eyes narrow at the dwarf, “The fact that you feel the need to ask is either considerably offensive or vaguely concerning.” 

He laughs. “A rhetorical question. Or a warning. You can decide which for yourself in a bit.” He forks through his cards mindlessly, placing one in discard before looking back to Hawke. 

“A warning, huh?” Min hums under her breath as she sorts through her own hand, choosing a card carefully and placing it in discard as well. “Should I be scared, Serah?” She lifts her glass momentarily, swirling the liquid in thought. “This isn’t a thinly veiled murder attempt, is it? Poison is sort of a low blow, but, if you’re finally sick of me?” She hums under her breath, “I assure you, the Inquisitor _will_ avenge me.” 

A familiar smirk accompanies her last quip, and she finds an earnest laugh leak just past Varric’s lips as he plays three cards, discards none, then refills his hand. Once he’s finished with his pull, his amber eyes lift to hers for a moment, and Hawke can’t help but be captured by their sincerity. 

“You know I could never be sick of you, Hawke.”

They’re frozen for a moment, eyes locked, unspoken currents of words running amok between them both before Hawke snaps back to reality and refocuses on her hand. They play a few hands in a pleasant silence, Hawke not bothering to pull any trump cards from her sleeve as Varric’s winning tells become increasingly more frequent. No use in wasting them, after all. She knew when to cut her losses.

After that, it’s only a few more rounds before Varric has ‘pulled’ the Angel of Death and the game is over. 

“You cheat, Serah.” Min states with an accusatory finger angled pointedly at the offending dwarf. 

Varric, of course, fiens offense. “Messere, you question my honor?” His eyes are blown comically wide, and large, stocky fingers are splayed over his partially bared chest. “You know I would _never_ tarnish the sanctity of Wicked Grace. I’m an honest man.” 

Hawke scoffs as she leans across the table to jab her finger against the hand resting on Varric’s chest. Her breath is hot on his face as she leans in, and Varric’s honeyed eyes dance with fond, familiar amusement. They’d missed this, this easy banter between friends- between something perhaps a bit more than that. They’d needed this. 

“Honest my arse, Varric;” she rolls her eyes, “you introduce yourself at parties as someone ‘prone to extravagant lies’.”

“Maybe so,” he begins, and the hand resting on his chest lifts and turns, seamlessly lacing stubby fingers through the longer, thinner ones which had been pointing him down. “But never to you, Hawke.” 

Min blanks as that, eyes wide and breath hitched in earnest surprise. Varric, to his credit, is schooling his face quite well in order to appear sincere, but Hawke could see the traitorous quirk at the corner of his lips from humor. It was just like him to pull something just as underhanded as it was touching to throw her off her game. It was just like her to allow it to _work_. 

“You know just as well as I do that trust and honesty don’t apply to Wicked Grace.” She states, shaking her head and pulling her hand and eyes away from Varric’s hold. She returns to her seat in a slump, crossing her arms in half-hearted protest. “However, I will let it slide this once because you, Ser, are far too charming for your own good.” 

Varric’s smirk is blinding, and Min isn’t quite sure whether or not she regrets the compliment yet. Maker knows he didn’t need a bigger ego. 

“Flattery, though appreciated, will get you nowhere- at least not right now, Hawke.” Varric motions vaguely to her cup, “Time to drink.” 

Min rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh before plucking the tankard from the table, raising it to her lips, and taking a long swig of the unfamiliar drink. It took all of her self control not to spew the offending liquid back out and onto Varric. 

“What-” she gagged, “in Andraste’s flaming- _fuck, ugh_ \- _knickers_ are we drinking, Varric?”

The dwarf chuckled as Min pinned him with, what she believed was, her best and most guilt-inducing stink-eye. He was not swayed. 

“It’s a personal favorite of our friend, Tiny’s; ‘Qunari call it ‘Maraas-Lok’.” Varric laughs again as Min lets out a groan. “What was it he said again? ‘Puts some chest on your chest’. What do you think, Hawke?” 

“I think,” she began, glare piercing through Varric’s still chuckling face. “You are not really my friend. A friend would never make me drink this.” 

“That’s why it’s the loser’s prize, Hawke.” He shrugs. “Gives us an incentive to try and win.” 

“I suppose.” She scowls, then gives a thoughtful hum. “I’ll make you regret this though, mark my words. You only won that last round because I let you cheat. Now it’s on.”

Their stares level and a familiar wave of lighthearted competition sweeps over the pair. 

“Sure, Hawke.” Varric returns their previously used cards into the deck and begins to shuffle anew. “Let’s go.”

\-----------------------------------

After that, they played round after round, late into the night, far past when the majority of the tavern’s guests had left to find sleep. By this point, Hawke’s glass had just been emptied, Varric’s not far behind, and both were well and truly sloshed. Their quips held less bite, but the laughs were far more free, and blue eyes lingered on honeyed ones far longer than they normally would. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Min was overly conscious of the slip the evening’s ambiance had taken towards an unmistakenly more-than-friends territory, sometime when they were about half-way through their drinks. But, ‘Maraas-Lok’ was strong and more than did its job, and she found as her intake went steadily up, her inhibitions and common sense tettered steadily down. 

Her touch was freer, and she found she wanted him impossibly nearer, and in the face of the final shred of dignity she could salvage from beyond the haze of booze, that meant she had taken up residence, at some point during the night, in a chair just adjacent to Varric’s own. Their knees would brush as they played, and Min could swear the air held a sort of unmistakable charge, muted only by the heavy influence of alcohol they were currently both victim to. She didn’t want it to end. 

Varric, of course, had to be the reasonable one, then. 

“It’s late,” he began, immediately prompting a vocal objection from Hawke, “-no, none of that, Chuckles. You’re out of booze for fuck’s sake.” 

“We don’ need booze to play, Varric.” Her voice was languid as she spoke. 

He laughed. “Then what will we play for?” 

Hawke hummed for a moment, finger tapping her mouth in contemplation as she swayed in her seat. “I have an idea.”

“Please, enlighten me.” 

“Kiss me.” 

Varric’s eyes blew wide at that, while Min rocked impossibly closer in her seat, eyes heavy as she watched his face. “Min-” he began, voice remarkably sober in its right, “-what?” 

“If I win,” she slurred, lidded eyes boring into Varric’s blown ones. “Kiss me.”

Varric gulps. “You were supposed to think of something you’d do if you _lost_ , Hawke.” 

Hawke groans. “Ugh- fine. If I lose, I finish the res’ of ‘ur ‘Ass-lock’. There-” she sways, speech slurred. “-win or lose we’ve got our bet. Sound good?” 

He swallows hard, again, pulling a hand roughly down his face before resting it over his mouth. Hawke, in her dizzy state, didn’t miss the flush staining the dwarf’s cheeks, though whether it was there due to the alcohol or herself was anyone’s guess at this point in the night.

“Yeah, Hawke.” He began, slowly, eyes averted. “Sounds good.” 

Hawke hummed, pleased with herself as Varric began to deal their last set of cards. Somewhere, beyond the buzz of alcohol coloring her sights, she could see the nerves coming off of Varric in waves; she just wasn’t sure _why_. 

“You can go first, chuckles. You’re practically bouncing out of your seat, there.” 

She pulled a card from her hand and placed it in discard, seamlessly pulling another from her sleeve to weigh the odds in her favor. If Varric noticed he didn’t say.  
  
“Could say the same ‘bout you, Varric- what’s got you nervous? I thought you said you were _‘good at Wicked Grace’_.” Hawke stumbled clumsily over a wink. 

He let escape a sigh that edged into an exasperated laugh. “I am, Hawke; but, when stakes are high…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he discarded. 

Hawke drew. “Aww,” she drew out on a vibrato, leaning into Varric as she teased. “Nervous you might have to kiss the Champion of Kirkwall, Varric?” She wagged her eyebrows at the dwarf. “I’d have thought you’d be used to the celebrity status by now?” 

He leveled her with a stare so sincere it was sobering. “I’m not nervous about kissing the Champion of Kirkwall. I’m nervous about kissing you;” his eyes were molten and exactly level with hers, words far too loaded for banter spoken during a game of Wicked Grace. “Min Hawke.”

They were quiet for a long moment as they stared but a hair's breadth away and far too afraid to move. Then, Hawke’s eyes drifted to Varric’s lips and, slowly, she broke her silence; 

“Varric, I-” 

“Maker’s Balls, what are you two doing up at this hour? Thought I closed the tabs hours ago.”

In a flourish, the otherwise engrossed pair jumped, eyes blown wide as they hastily created distance between themselves. 

“We were- uhm.”

“ _Wicked Grace_ , Cabot-” Varric gulped, “We’ve been nursing the same cups all night, hence the lack of a tab.” He offered the tired barkeep a friendly, if not slightly forced, laugh. “Time sort of got away from us. Sorry. We’ll pack up.” 

Cabot didn’t afford them a response, instead offering a prolonged side-eye and a disgruntled grunt in unhappy affirmation before walking away from the pair and returning to whatever it was he needed to get done behind the bar. Varric, ignoring the current status of their hands, began restacking the discards and remaining deck, while Hawke watched Cabot’s back recede in a sort of shocked silence. 

Soon, the cards had been put away, their remaining drink forgotten, and both Varric and Hawke had begun the dizzy trek out the doors of the Herald’s Rest and into the light flurry of snow currently painting the barracks of Skyhold. Once outside, the pair remained for a long moment, stony, standing in sodden silence just outside the tavern, a sort of disbelief settling over them in waves. The gravity of what had occurred inside, or rather, had _almost_ occurred, was hitting them both with the ferocity of a charging great bear, and Hawke, in her stupor, had no idea what to do. 

So, she laughed. 

It began as a slow scoff, really, but soon, in mere moments, had evolved into a full-blown, tear-inducing, rumble. It wasn’t long before Varric, slightly shocked at her outburst, also caught onto her laugh’s infectious timber. 

“‘ _Wicked Grace, Cabot. Uhh.. Uh, We’ll pack up.’_ **Very** smooth, Varric. Who’d have thought a single barkeep could rock you so off-kilter?” 

Winding down, Varric rolled his eyes and wiped a tear, facing Hawke with a smile. “Yeah, Yeah. A barkeep. Come on, Hawke, I’ll walk you back to your room.” 

He began the trek before waiting for Hawke’s approval, head shaking in contemplation as the Champion in question stumbled behind after a delayed start. 

“Slow _down_ , Varric. You can hardly walk me back to my room without, well… _me_.” 

Varric, to his credit, did not humor her jibe. Instead, he made his way through the snow, leading the way as they walked in a pleasant, though slightly unnerving, silence to Min’s quarters until they found their way to her door, pausing so he could motion her inside. 

“Thank you for tonight, Hawke. It’s always a pleasure to beat you at your own game.” He paused, mulling over what he wanted to say. “I missed this.” 

Briefly, she contemplates playing into his thinly veiled, forced nonchalance. In the end, however, her natural bravado and still mildly intoxicated psyche wins out over her common sense and desire to preserve the integrity of their long-standing friendship.  
Without time for contemplation, Hawke leans down, placing a kiss on Varric’s stubbled cheek, resting her hand on the opposing side of his face as she does. Her eyes flutter closed as her lips touch, and she feels her heart threatening to expel itself from her chest. As she leans back, Varric’s eyes are blown. 

“I missed _you_.” 

She states simply, an uncharacteristically shy smile gracing her lips. Then, her eyes boring through his, Hawke slips her hand behind her back to unlock her door, seamlessly slipping herself within the confines of her room before Varric can blink. 

Peaking through the crack, Hawke smiles at his confounded expression. 

“Goodnight, Varric.” 

She shuts the door. And, left outside in the snow, Varric, finally, regains a semblance of composure, and a smile. 

“Goodnight, Hawke.”


End file.
